he
desirability of guarding your conduct."

"In what respect?"

Mrs. Denyse pointed majestically to the pictorial blur in the paper.
"Perhaps you don't recognize that," she said.

"I don't. Nobody could."

"That's true; they couldn't," she granted reluctantly. "But there's the
name beneath, Cecily Wayne. I suppose you can read."

"I can. Who is Cecily Wayne?"

"Of all the impudence!" cried the enraged lady. "As you've been making
yourself and her conspicuous all the afternoon--"

"Oh!" exclaimed the Tyro, a great light breaking in upon him. "So that's
Cecily Wayne. It's a pretty name."

"It's a name that half of the most eligible men in New York have tried
their best to change," said the other with emphasis. "Remsen Van Dam is
not the only one, I assure you."

"Then the apostle of St. Vitus on the dock was Remsen Van Dam! Well,
that's all right. She isn't engaged to him. The paper's wrong."

"Pray, how can you know that?"

"A little bird--No; they don't have little birds at sea, do they? A
well-informed fish told me."

"Then I tell you the opposite. Now I trust that you will appreciate that
your attentions to Miss Wayne are offensive."

"They don't seem to have offended her."

"Where did you know her? Who are you, anyway?" snapped his inquisitress,
her temper quite gone.

The Tyro leaned forward and fixed his gaze midway of the lady's adequate
corsage.

"If you want to know," said he, "you're carrying my favor above your
heart, or near it, this minute. Look on the under side of your necktie."

The indignant one turned the scarf and read with a baleful eye:
"Smitholder: Pat. April 10, 1912." "What does Smitholder mean?" she
demanded.

"A holder for neckwear, the merits of which modesty forbids me to
descant upon, invented by its namesake, Smith."

"Ah," said she, with a great contempt. "Then your name, I infer, is
Smith."

He bowed. "Smith's as good a trade name as any other."

"Very well, Mr. Smith. Take my advice and keep your distance from Miss
Wayne. Otherwise--"

"Well, otherwise?" encouraged the Tyro as she paused.

"I shall send a wireless to my cousin. _And_ to Mr. Wayne. I suppose you
know, at least, who Hurry-up Wayne of Wall Street is."

"Never heard of him," said the Tyro cheerfully.

"You're a fool!" said Mrs. Charlton Denyse, and marched away, with the
guerdon of Smith heaving above her outraged and ample bosom.

III

Third day out.
All kinds of doings